I join my voice to the chaos. “RUUUUUUUNNNNN!” I yell in my best homage to Minority Report. We scramble about fifty feet down the trail. We stop to assess our damage when we have cleared the swarm. I

Isabelle has been stung on the knuckle. and Isaac has been stung on the ankle. (Each child’s second sting of the month and of their lives.) Wendy extracts the stinger from Isaac’s ankle and we exhale.

The kids take it remarkably well. Emergency over.

“AHHHHHHHHHH!!!” Screams Isaac.

“What is the matter,” Wendy asks. Isaac clutches his bum and indicates he has been stung. Wendy quickly pantses him (it seems to me that either she was an accomplished pantser in grade school or she missed her calling). A bee flies away leaving an angry red welt on Isaac’s left cheek.

I watch the bee retreat and notice that the swarm is coming after us.

I yell for everyone to run. Isabelle darts to the front. Isaac tries to follow, but has his underwear around his ankles. He looks like a convict attempting an escape from the chain gang. Wendy trails behind and I take up the rear.

I yell at Wendy to pick Isaac up. It is the guttural yell of a man under attack. It is not nice and it is not quiet. I later spend the evening apologizing for losing it. It is the only time I have yelled at Wendy. She forgives me because she is kind (and because of the rules of war.)

Meanwhile Isaac and Isabelle are screaming and crying and Wendy is barking orders. I pick up Isabelle and we charge down the path. We are stumbling, crashing, yelling, crying.

We have finally left the bees behind. We exit the trees and find ourselves intruders. Three small children look up at us from their picnic blanket. They have wide eyes and uneasy looks.

We proceed to stammer an apology after taking a minute or two to thoroughly examine our half naked boy for remaining bees.

I then feel this unreasonable rage boil within me. I seriously consider going back to the bees and wreaking havoc. Visions of renting a flame thrower and sneaking back at night fill my head. Ultimately, three things prevent me from going through with it.

One, where does one rent a flame thrower? (This is not a rhetorical question. You know, in case it comes up again.) Two, I am sure Smokey the Bear would disapprove. Three, I remember that maimed ant. I recall, how he was innocently on his way when he met my rage.

I realize, sometimes nature is a bee. (Stupidest pun ever.) (But, I refuse to apologize.)(Sorry.) (Dang.)